A/N: This fic is being written for the Tumblr Jonsa Kink Week event, and will encompass themes from the entire week.

Chapter 1 - Day 1: dark!jon

Please note: I've combined both Westerosi and ancient Rome/Roman Empire history here. Tommen has been aged up, and pretend for my sake, that all the great houses are MUCH closer to Kings Landing (and just closer to each other in general). Basically, it's my world and you're living in it! lol

Heart On Your Sleeve, Like You've Never Been Loved

Heart on your sleeve, like you've never been loved.

Running in circles, now look what you've done.

Give you my word as you take it and run.

Wish you'd let me stay, I'm ready now

-Friends, Chase Atlantic

Chapter One: Face It, You Want It, You Crave It

The enormous crowd of the colosseum humming in her ears, Sansa snaps her little hand-held fan open and flutters it lightly against her face, already dewy with perspiration. Whilst she does not condone bloodsport, the excited thrum of energy in the arena is palpable and infectious, and a flicker of anticipation sparks within her belly, despite herself.

She raises a dainty hand, squinting against the sun's harsh rays, and lets her palla slip down to the middle of her back so that her heated skin might breathe. One would think that nearly a year in the Capital would have accustomed her to the warmer climate, but it is not so.

A sharp disapproving scowl from her husband reminds Sansa that it is not just the climate that she's having trouble acclimating to. Joffrey tugs her palla back up to where he deems respectable, his fingers digging possessively into the curve of her waist—as if daring her to let the silk cover-up slip again. She was always so quick to provoke his ire, despite her pointed efforts of being the demure and dutiful wife that society expected of her—that he expected of her—as the wife of a Senator's son.

Love? Well, that was another thing entirely. An arranged marriage did not require love; if a couple was fortunate, that often came later with time, as it had with her own parents. It would not be so for Sansa. And while she had not entered into this marriage with her heart closed, Joffrey had slammed that door in her face on their wedding night.

Those thoughts were not for today though, Sansa chides herself, ceasing her fanning momentarily so that her mother-in-law—already deep into her cups—could press an unaffectionate kiss to her cheek. Margaery and Tommen had been invited to test the strength of High Garden's most prominent Gladiators against the champions of the Empire—a great honor, and Sansa and Joffrey were to be their guests, in their own private box, just above that of the Emperor's.

"Sister!" Margaery squeals delightedly, hauling her out of Joffrey's grasp so that she could throw her own arms around her. "How I have missed you! Do say you'll come back to High Garden with us for a visit? We've much catching up to do."

Perhaps one of her only genuinely true friends here, Sansa returns her sister-in-law's embrace with gusto. "If my husband is agreeable," she nods, accepting the goblet of wine thrust into her hand.

Margaery rounds on Joffrey immediately, refusing to accept no for an answer, until he finally acquiesces to the persistent charms of his younger brother's wife—but then, who could refuse Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon, anyway?

"It's settled, then." Margaery claps her hands together excitedly before tugging Sansa's palla free from her shoulders and draping it over one of the chairs. "Are you mad? It's too warm to be trussed up so, silly girl."

Sansa steals a nervous glance at her husband, who sneers momentarily before pasting a fake smile on his thin lips, and leaves them be to converse with the other noblemen who'd joined them in the box. As Margaery turns to greet her newly arrived guests, Sansa quickly snatches her palla up, draping it back around her shoulders before settling herself into the unoccupied chair it had been draped upon, and snaps her fan open again.

"Such lovely stitches." Cersei runs her fingers along the embroidered edges of Sansa's palla as she seats herself beside her. "Best to protect that delicate skin of yours from the relentless sun, little dove," she adds before taking a hearty swallow from her goblet, her mouth twitching into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I do hope you pass some livelier color onto my grandchildren, though."

Sansa stiffens at her mother-in-law's choice of words, as her insecurities regarding her inability to conceive stab like a dagger in her heart—as Cersei had intended, Sansa's sure. For a wife had one duty to her husband: to give him heirs. And on that front, Sansa was thus far failing miserably.

"No worries, Mother." Margaery slips her arm over Cersei's shoulders and inserts her face between the two women. "We know you're eager to have your arms full of grandchildren, and I for one am putting in a valiant effort." Her eyes flit to her own husband—nearly seven years her junior—as her lips twist into a smirk. "Tommen certainly isn't lacking in stamina. But alas, if only your sons had inherited their father's virility."

Now it is Cersei who stiffens, her mouth pulling into that same bland smile before she attacks her goblet once more. Senator Baratheon's penchant for fathering a string of bastards throughout their seventeen-year marriage was no secret; but then again, neither were his wife's extracurricular activities—both of which their great deal of wealth and power caused most of Westeros to turn a blind eye.

"Slide down, Mother," Margaery chirps, setting Cersei's teeth to gnashing as she relocates a few seats over so that Margaery could occupy the space beside Sansa. "Are you excited?" she asks, threading their fingers together in her lap, eyes sparkling and a grand smile tugging at her lovely little heart-shaped lips.

Sansa merely nods. This was to be her first time witnessing a battle of Gladiators, and perhaps excitement wasn't the word that fit, but she is overjoyed at finally breaking free of the confines of Casterly Rock.

Positioned at the edge of the Capital, jutting out of the mighty cliffs that hung over the Sunset Sea, her new family's ancestral home does not lack beauty, but rather the warmth she'd left behind in Winterfell. It made her ache for children all the more profound, wanting to fill the empty echoing halls with laughter and love—sons and daughters in the image of her siblings, whom she misses dearly with each passing day.

The rumbling of drums brings the hum of the crowd to a halt as the Emperor Viserys and his sister-wife Daenerys suddenly appears. Sansa cannot decide which of the two is more beautiful as everyone stands abruptly, watching as they cross the arena, flanked by the imperial guard. They float in the finest tunics and robes of cream and gold silk, their jeweled hands clasped regally at shoulder level as they ascend the stairs to their box just below.

"Look." Margaery points at the Senators crossing thereafter, Sansa's father Eddard amongst them—his grey direwolf sash slung over his bleached white tunic making him easy to pick out from the lot of them.

Sansa's heart swells at the sight of him. She'd only just seen him no more than a fortnight ago when he'd come to sup with her father-in-law whilst they argued over duties and taxation of imports, but they had been working, so she'd made herself scarce. Now when he catches sight of her, he waves, his usually solemn face immediately perking up as he climbs the steps and takes his seat within the Emperor's box, as duty compelled.

Only when the drums' thumping ceases does everyone once again take their seats, Joffrey quickly sliding into the empty one beside Sansa, as Tommen takes the one next to his own wife. From the peripheral of her vision, Sansa can't help but watch how he clasps Margaery's hand in his own, bringing her fingers to his lips before folding them gently in his lap. She would get no such romantic overtures from her own husband. No soft touches or declarations of love, or even a tender word.

As a child, she'd always known that Joffrey would one day be her husband. Their fathers had grown up together, had been the best of friends, and it only seemed fitting to officially unite the families through marriage. She'd pined for him then—Joffrey of the house Baratheon, the Golden Lion-Stag, so handsome and poised.

Sansa had thought her wedding day the happiest of her life. Draped in the finest silks of white and grey, a crown of winter roses woven into her plaits and piled high atop her head, and all her loved ones in attendance. She'd never felt more beautiful, and Joffrey had pounced at every opportunity to tell her so. By the time he'd whisked her to their bedchamber, she'd been nervous, but prepared for what was to come—Mother had seen to that.

But Mother had been wrong. So wrong.

Joffrey didn't kiss her, nor caress her lovingly, or whisper how beautiful she was, as he had all day before their guests. Instead he spun her 'round and pushed her face-down into their marriage bed, his hands rough, fingers digging into her tender flesh as he rucked up her tunic and cruelly forced himself inside of her without bothering to remove any of their clothing—or prepare her virginal body. He'd taken her from behind like a common animal, like he couldn't even bear to look at her. And afterwards, he'd left her to her maiden's blood and tears of shame.

After that initial night, Joffrey only returned to her chambers twice every fortnight, unless she was on her bleeding cycle. Sometimes she lies and tells him she still is. Where he spends his nights, she does not know, and she tells herself that's probably for the best. He'd exercised his marital duties just two nights ago, so she'd been granted a reprieve from his attentions again, at least for a little while…

Suddenly the drums begin beating again—primitive and wildly, startling Sansa from the unpleasant turn of her thoughts, and compelling her to lean forward for a better view. The gates on either side of the arena rattle, then burst open, and the crowd begins to roar with applause as the Gladiators march in two straight lines from either side—twelve of them, meeting each other face-to-face in the middle.

"Here they are!" Margaery exclaims, leaning forward and linking her arm with Sansa's.

"Which are yours?" Sansa wants to know, as she takes in their sun-bronzed bodies and extraordinary physiques—like etched marble statues come to life, but kissed by the sun.

"Those three." Margaery points and Sansa's eyes follow. "And that one there, he is our champion."

Initially, Sansa is shocked as she sets sight upon the Champion of High Garden. He's much smaller in stature in comparison to the hulking men who surround him on all sides—but he's lean, his muscles strong and well-defined, and upon further inspection, he looks every bit just as powerful as his opponents.

"You underestimate him?" Margaery seems to have slipped inside of her mind, as she leans closer and whispers, "So will all of them, and that is why he'll be victorious today."

"Mighty presumptuous of you," Joffrey sniffs, swirling his wine goblet in a very Cersei-like fashion.

"Not at all, dear brother," Margaery happily lays her trap. "Just confident. Perhaps you'd care to place a wager?"

Joffrey scoffs and turns up his nose. "Why would I wager with you? You've nothing to offer me."

"She has anything at my disposal, brother," Tommen pipes up from beside his wife. "Name your price."

Joffrey considers, his pride no longer allowing him to back out. He thumbs his lip, the sun catching the variety of rings decorating his fingers. His thin lips curl and he smirks. "One of your Gladiators. My choice."

"Done!" Margaery claps. "And should you lose, Sansa remains with me at High Garden until summer's end."

"Agreed."

Sansa doesn't know know why she cringes when he so readily agrees to being rid of her the entire summer. She knows it's not because he thinks he'll lose their wager, either. And it isn't even as if she should care, with the way Joff treats her; she should be quite happy—relieved, really—with his indifference. But there is a part of her that yearns for affection still, and it's that part that watches Tommen tattoo kisses up Margaery's wrist as if it's as natural to him as breathing, that part that can't help but be envious, and Sansa wonders why she doesn't deserve that too—and it's that part of her that weeps silently from within.

The other part of her—the logical one that tempers her silly notions of romanticism—is thrilled at the prospect of being rid of her neglectful husband and his vindictive mother for an entire season. With all the more reason to be invested in the upcoming fight, Sansa leans forward with renewed interest, her curiosity piqued.

The Gladiators raise their weapons of choice. Bodies primed yet tense, they circle each other in a dance of intimidation as the arena descends into a deathly quiet. Sansa doesn't even realize she's holding her breath until suddenly the clash of hard steel shatters the deafening silence, and the amphitheater roars to life with the chants and cries of its patrons.

Captivated, she watches as one by one they crumble and fall—not in death, but surrender—bodies bent, broken and bloodied, until only three of twelve remain. But there is only one to whom Sansa's eyes return to again and again, his agile body deflecting blow after blow, as he moves with the lithe grace of a practiced dancer. He carries no shield, but two swords, and he swings them as if they were weightless.

He's a glorious sight to behold, the powerful muscles in his arms flexing and bunching, dirt-caked and sun-kissed. The other two Gladiators—twice his size and heavy with armor—round on him. Clang clang, the steel screams as it collides, and Sansa's heart works its way into her throat as he battles them both simultaneously.

The crowd is a living thing, it heaves and sighs as one of his swords goes skidding into the dirt, and he takes an elbow to the face, head snapping backwards. He stumbles, then spins, and his foot connects with the breastplate of one rival, to catapult himself into the other.

And then there were two.

Her pulse skipping wildly against her throat, horrified and mesmerized, Sansa is unable to tear her eyes away as the beautiful dance of chaos rages on. Clashing together, then shoving apart—together—apart—the singing of steel echoes through the arena, a cadence of violence and untempered strength.

Chest heaving, muscles straining, his sword shrieks as it's flung from his grasp, and Sansa's composure momentarily slips—unable to stifle the audible gasp that pushes past her lips, unbidden. Wasting no time, he lunges for his weapon, his hand curling around the hilt as he tucks and rolls; and in a beat, he's back on his feet again, sword swinging and charging harder than before.

She feels the bite of Joffrey's fingers as they slither 'round her wrist, vaguely hears Margaery whispering at her ear, but Sansa ignores it—ignores them all, her heart fluttering wildly, eyes transfixed. The other Gladiator begins to tire, the heavy weight of his armor dragging him down.

Their swords cross; the sharp, piercing sound of screaming steel reverberates through the colosseum as they slide against each other, battling for dominance. A test of strength, of heart and perseverance—and with one sharp, well-placed elbow to the gut, the bigger Gladiator finally falls.

He hits the ground hard, puffs of dirt swirling into the air between himself and his smaller but triumphing assailant. And yet, he does not relent—clumsily swinging his sword, even as his opponent reduces his wooden shield to splinters. The crowd hums excitedly, bloodlust crackling through the arena like a toxic aphrodisiac, as the battle wages on.

Breathe. Her breasts heave against the sudden constricting tightness of her tunic, her skin flushed, damp with perspiration, body hot. Dry. Her mouth is dry. Sansa flicks her tongue against her lips to wet them, her knuckles whitening against the grip of her fan. Joffrey's own grip tightens, pressing deeper into her wrist, but Sansa pays him no mind, lost in a daze as one final, shuddering blow sends the hulking Gladiator's sword clattering to the ground.

A soft cry spills from between Sansa's parted lips, as the crowd erupts in a thundering storm of applause. They chant for him—the Champion of High Garden, as he waits, chest heaving, sword poised to strike, for the Emperor to decide the fate of his fallen foe.

A thumbs-up indicates a reprieve for a battle fought hard and well. His face emotionless, the Champion tosses his sword into the dirt—no more than an afterthought—and struts out of the arena.

"What's gotten into you?" Joffrey's voice hisses in her ear—the slithering tongue of a serpent. He jerks Sansa back into her chair, the rest of his words dying on his lips as Margaery enacts her bragging rights.

"No congratulations necessary, dear brother." She smiles cheekily, her own hand wrapping 'round Sansa's other wrist to tug her from his grasp yet again. "Perhaps you'll consider more wisely before betting against High Garden's Champion again?"

Joffrey's grip relaxes under Margaery's watchful gaze. "Perhaps." He nods and rises from his chair to mingle with the other nobility once again.

"And you, love?" Margaery turns a curious eye on Sansa. "How did you enjoy your first match in the arena?"

Sansa blinks. "I, uhm—I—"

"Hmm. That's what I thought." Margaery smiles wickedly, one perfectly winged brow quirking into a typical, oh-so-Margaery expression. "Care to join me in the pits for a little up-close and personal viewing?"

She stands abruptly, pulling Sansa with her. "I must speak to Davos about the transport of my strapping fellows," Margaery adds, with a saucy wink.

Sansa pulls her palla more snuggly 'round her shoulders. It was not the chill nor dampness in the place that Margaery called "the pits" that causes her to do so—but the leering stares of the men ensconced in the various cells that line the corridors. They ogle and gape at the women, some spit disrespectfully in their direction, and others mutter the most undignified things.

With a haughty shake of her graceful neck, Margaery pulls Sansa closer, linking their arms, her gaze never faltering as she stares straight ahead. "Ignore them. They can't hurt you."

The flickering torchlight guiding their way, Sansa follows her sister-in-law's lead, doing her damnedest not to break her stride or let her eyes stray as they move deeper under the colosseum. She was just being silly. The imperial guards are but a stone's throw away, and the cell doors are all locked, are they not?

"Domina," a gruff man's voice, heavy with a foreign accent that Sansa does not recognize, greets them—specifically Margaery, as they round the next corner. "You should not be here—"

Whatever he is about to say stalls on his tongue as Margaery waves her hand dismissively. "Don't be ridiculous, Davos. We're perfectly safe here with you."

"Of course, Domina." He immediately calms and ducks his head. Another man beguiled by Margaery's charms, Sansa thinks to herself, wishing she could bottle and wear her essence.

"Sansa, this is Ser Davos, our esteemed Doctore, and once a mighty champion himself. Now he trains our Gladiators and makes them champions." Margaery pats him affectionately on the arm before continuing her introductions. "And Davos, this is my dear sweet sister and most beloved friend, Sansa. She'll be spending the summer with us in High Garden—" she gives him her signature wink "—thanks to you and our Champion."

Davos nods and smiles warmly, keeping his eyes lowered as a sign of respect. "Lady Sansa. Perhaps you'd like a tour of the Ludus? See the Gladiators train?"

"I'd like that," Sansa agrees, then takes a step back as Margaery slips seamlessly into instruction on their immediate departure for High Garden.

Sansa is content to stand by as her friend issues orders that, thanks to her inherent charisma, sound more like polite requests. Soon, though, her mind begins to wander and her feet with it. A jangle of chains draws her curiously towards the cell in the corner, her sandals padding quietly in the soft dirt beneath her, until she's peering into its shadowy depths.

She does not so much as see, but rather feels his gaze upon her—raking the length of her body so intensely that she can track the movements of his eyes by the goosebumps that raise on her porcelain skin, and the continuous shiver down her spine that follows. She startles, stifling a gasp as his fingers suddenly curl around the bars, and sets her pulse skipping erratically against her throat.

His warm breath hits her face, arresting grey eyes pinning her in place, so that she couldn't move—even if she wanted to. She isn't sure she wants to.

The Champion of High Garden.

He's more impressive than she'd ever imagined. The flames of the torches lick at his body—a canvas of sharp angles and hard planes, woven together by corded muscle and marred by wounds both healed and fresh. Sansa's fingers itch to trace the puckered flesh, to see what it might feel like beneath her fingertips…

Almost as soon as the thought comes, unbidden, to her mind, Sansa chastises herself for it. She is a highborn lady, a married woman—with no business ogling some half-naked man she hasn't even so much as been properly introduced to.

No matter how magnificent he is. And he is.

As he tilts his head—inspecting her as she does him—a riot of dampened black curls tumble across his forehead, and a peculiar urge to sweep them back overcomes Sansa. To push her hands into his hair and run her fingers through—Seven save her, what has come over her?

"Come to prowl the pits and see the caged animals, princess?" His voice crackles in the space between them, hoarse and laced with bitterness.

Sansa is taken aback, unsure what she's done to provoke his ire so. She takes a deep breath, the corners of her mouth pulling into a polite smile, trying her hand at a little Margaery charm. "You are a skilled fighter, Ser."

"I am skilled at a great many things," he tosses back without missing a beat, his eyes traveling the length of her body. He flicks his tongue against his lips.

She's not sure what he's about, but her pulse skips anyway as she watches him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, as his gaze dips to the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. She's panting—when did that happen? Sansa casts her eyes to the dirt floor, a blush creeping from her cheeks to the tips of her ears, afraid she'll burst into flames from the heat suddenly coiling deep within her belly.

She's not sure what that's about, either. Nervous, she fiddles with the tassels of her palla and tries to gather her bearings.

Clang—the clink of chains, the scrape of iron—powerful arms snake through the bars of the Gladiator's cage with the striking speed of a whip. His hands snatch the ends of her palla and he gives a tug, dragging her slowly towards him. Sansa digs in her heels, heart racing so that she cannot even find her voice to cry out for help—trapped in the silken folds of her own clothing. Powerless to stop his intentions, Sansa stumbles forward as he hauls her against the bars—against him.

Her hands come up, a useless barrier, palms flat against the smooth expanse of his leather breastplate—warmed from the sun and the heat of his skin. Sansa pushes against his massive chest, staring helplessly at the perfect symmetry of his sculpted shoulders, the smudges of blood and dirt mottling the skin of his long arms—but it's of no use. He's immovable.

He leans so that his face is pressing against the bars, hot breath ghosting across her cheek, her palla still clutched in his massive hands. "You highborn women are all the same, turning up your pretty noses, gawking at us animals as we pace our cages."

He rubs the silk between his fingertips, as if bemused by its softness. "Such finery…" His eyes raise to hers—two smoldering embers flickering in the fire's light, his face half-bathed in shadow. "And your dress too. Befitting of a princess. Aren't you afraid you'll soil it down here in the muck and filth?"

Sansa shakes her head only the slightest of twitches. She cannot speak. Her breath rasps between dry lips, the tip of her tongue darting out automatically to wet them.

He tracks the movement, eyes fixed on the shape of her mouth now, studying her intently under hooded lashes. "Of course not. Your fancy husband will just buy you a new one then, won't he? I bet you have plenty."

He shifts the ends of her palla to one hand, lifting the other to graze his finger along the curve of her jaw. "Blue to match the color of your eyes. Red like your hair… your lips."

Sansa shudders at his touch, however soft; he sneers in response, his lips peeling back into a feral snarl. "Does he tear them off you, too?" He yanks sharply on the palla, pulling her closer still—the cool iron of the bars digging into her soft flesh. "Does he?" the Gladiator demands again.

Her answering no is naught but a wisp of warm air that slips past her lips in a broken stutter.

"I would." His finger follows the path where his eyes had feasted earlier, slipping down the hollow of her throat to dip between the valley of her breasts—heaving against his brazen caress. "Tear those pretty silks from you with my teeth, worship your soft body with my mouth… my tongue…"

"Please…" Sansa whimpers, her pulse jumping so wildly under her skin, she fears her heart will burst. A mistake—she twists her head, but Margaery is still occupied, unaware of her plight.

"Aye." He nods his head, using her slip to his advantage, and presses his face against hers—beard rasping against her delicate skin, hot breath in her ear. "Please you I would, princess. Get my face between your legs—in your pretty little cunt."

He inhales sharply, his next words riding the shuddering breath he expels against her throat: "Bet you taste as sweet as you smell. Are you kissed by fire down there, too?"

Her eyelashes flutter against her flushed cheeks. Sansa clamps her mouth shut over the strangled cry that claws its way up her throat. Lightheaded, she rocks against him.

"Yes, just like that," he groans against her ear as he catches her lobe between his teeth, stirring the loose tendrils of her hair. "Would you cry out my name, princess? Beg for my cock? I would gladly give it to you."

Her lips part, the coiling heat in her belly blossoming throughout her limbs like the sweetest warm honey. Yes—it's perched at the tip of her tongue as he draws back to gaze into the storm raging behind her blue eyes, her skin prickly where he's touched.

The hold on her palla slackens as his hands glide the length of her arms—palms still pressed flat against his chest, his own heart hammering beneath the warm leather. His large hands dwarf her own as he covers them, calloused palms turning them over to caress her where her pulse quickens still.

His eyes flash suddenly, lips curling up in a snarl at the angry purple bruises that mar the delicate skin on the underside of her wrist—five distinct fingerprints—Joffrey's. Sansa is suddenly self-conscious, her brows furrowing as she takes a hasty step backwards, released from the silken bonds of her palla, as his own grip on her loosens.

"Did your husband do that to you?" He asks, thumbs brushing gentle circles over her marked flesh—his dark eyes softening, earnest, as they seek her own. "I wouldn't."

"Filthy slave! Away with you, beast!" The guard materializes out of nowhere.

Sansa startles, pulling free just in time as—clang—the hilt of his sword smacks the bars and connects with the Gladiator's knuckles. He hisses in pain, jerking back abruptly—her palla slipping from his grasp to float carelessly to the dirt below.

"No, stop!" Sansa pleads for the guard to cease as Margaery and Davos rush to her aid.

"What's the meaning of this?" Margaery demands of the guard, shoving in front of Sansa protectively. "By what right do you put your hands on my man?"

"Filthy prick was touching the lady, stole her clothing!" He flicks the point of his sword towards the rumpled silk on the ground.

"He stole nothing, I gave it to him." Sansa swoops around Margaery's defensive stance to scoop up her palla, shaking the dirt from it before she thrusts her arm through the bars, hand outstretched. "A gift for the Champion of High Garden. For a battle well fought, Ser," she adds, inclining her head.

Hesitantly, he reaches for her offered palla. Sansa cannot contain the blush that stains her cheeks when his fingers intentionally sweep across her injured wrist in the exchange. There's a million things she wants to say, as Margaery tucks an arm around her waist and begins leading her away, going on about leaving Joffrey to her when he broaches the subject of his wife's missing palla—as surely, he will.

"Jon—"

The Gladiator's voice calling after her prompts Sansa to turn to the sound, her gaze catching his over her shoulder as she allows herself to be led from the pits. His eyes are soft still, sincere, as he watches her go with the air of a man whose dearest wish is that she'd stay.

His grip on her palla is as strong as it had been when he'd held her to him—but his thumbs are gentle as he caresses the silk—and he calls to her again, "My name is Jon."